


Writing's On The Wall

by tessaquayle



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst and Romance, F/M, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 15:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13720578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessaquayle/pseuds/tessaquayle
Summary: Getting away meant something different entirely.





	Writing's On The Wall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Breaks, O my heart’s blood, like a heart and hill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13116726) by [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch). 



She was tired.  It was midnight.  Out in the hallway, the custodian pushed along a wheeled bin, its muffled rumble providing equal parts comfort and discomfort: a reminder she was not alone and the uneasy idea of another human being tasked with taking out her trash.  She finally heard his footsteps fade, and a door slammed shut.

There was freedom in solitude.  Kicking off her heels, Vivian rolled off her stockings, balled them up, threw them into a corner.  The glow from her laptop screen dimly lit the tiny office.  She found an Alec Guinness reading of TS Eliot’s Four Quartets, turned up the volume, and turned back to typing away furiously.  

The hard, fast tapping of the keyboard was interrupted by a loud chuckle.

“God, woman, how many words a minute can you type?”  Mallory stood at the door, his shoulder against the frame.

“Is someone in search of a secretary?”

He winked: “You filled that position last week, remember?”  He looked around and then at her expectantly: “May I come in?”

“Of course,” she replied, finding his formality curious.  And welcome.

“It’s spartan,” he said, surveying the books leaning like dominoes on the half empty shelf where a scented candle and a coffee mug collected dust.  No medical texts, just fiction.  

“Well, I was crossing an ocean, I had to pack light.”     

He leaned against her desk.  

“Careful,” she warned lightly.  “This isn’t as nice and sturdy as yours.  If you lean on it too hard, you could break it.”  She held his glance steadily, sure of what she’d made him remember.

During their first encounter, she’d tugged his tie toward her so that his head bowed and she tiptoed to meet his lips, kissing him hard until his mouth was swollen.  She let him bend her over the desk, putting her arms out along the cool, dark mahogany as he moved against her.  When he came, he reached for her hand curling her fingers under his.  She thought of his weight pressing her down, that sense of vital power, controlled, intoxicating, and she remembered wanting time to stand still.  

This was his first time in her office, her space.  Vivian watched as he fingered the spines of the novels, pulled them out and flipped them over to scan the back summaries.  Soft queries yielding simple answers.   This was not an interrogation; and yet, she felt unprepared by this rifling through thoughts.  An unannounced inspection – to what end exactly?  She was unnerved.  She felt more exposed now than in the moments he’d knelt before her, his hands circling her hips - he’d nipped her inner thigh, leaving a mark.  A shudder, a grip.  Looking up, he’d spied the rise of her chest.  He murmured a word she couldn’t understand, an answer she hadn’t thought of.

“Where is that?”  He pointed to a panoramic photo hanging on the wall behind her.  A wooden dock split a turquoise sea and stretched into the orange red horizon.  

“Tulum.”  She shrugged, rubbed her eyes.  “I know, it looks like a scene out of a motivational poster.  I borrowed a friend’s Leica and could only use it as a point and shoot.  Really - the picture takes itself with a fancy camera.”  

He grinned: “Maybe when this case is done, you can take me there.”

“I wish you wouldn’t…” muttered Vivian.  She reddened and the room suddenly felt hot.  She shifted in her chair, rolling it forward.  In the beginning, she had thought they’d be done when the case was done.  And now, she wished her feelings could be neatly compartmentalized, contained within borders squiggled on a map.  A foolish wish - hope was expectation was disappointment.   

Guinness’ baritone rang through the tinny computer speakers:

_….human kind_

_Cannot bear very much reality_

_Time past and time future_

_What might have been and what has been_

_Point to one end, which is always present_

 

Mallory gazed at her, confused, his eyes darkening.   “You wish I wouldn’t … what?”

“Never mind, sorry, it’s nothing.  I guess - I guess we’ll see.”  And offered a smile instead of an answer.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the eponymous name of Sam Smith's song in the film SPECTRE. Ralph Fiennes' reading of T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets is superior. This story is a thank you gift to a dear friend who created the OFC and who provided the prompt and thoughtful advice.


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